Trail North

By C.T. Baker

Johnny Long returns home from the brutal Civil War to Liberty, Texas anxious to rejoin his parents and sisters. Instead, he finds only the crumbling remains of his home with the dusty graves of his murdered loved ones nearby. Determined to start his life anew, he sets out and finds the unexpected: friendship, revenge, violence—and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorthe Andersen
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223149705

Book preview

In Loving Memory of Two Beautiful Women

Gladys Baker and Lillis Hall

Chapter One 

Sam Jennings, age 21, rode out of Texas on a bright, hot sunny day two shakes ahead of the law after killing a dirt-poor farmer, and raping the man’s vile-looking wife, and two homely daughters. The two men that rode with him got greedy over the daughters and one shot the other with Sam killing the victor.  His thoughts drifted to the farmer’s home resembling a dugout, with a dirt floor and all the furnishings were crude sawed limbs tied together with rough twine and faded pale-brown rawhide. Looking around the farm at the scrawny, off-white Alpine goats with ribs sticking out, rusty wagon wheel wrenches and a few in shaves, Sam decided that the place wasn’t really worth the trouble to burn.

After looking through the larder, smoke house, and the barn and finding nothing worth taking, he picked up a sandy handful of what passed as soil and as it sifted through his calloused, warty fingers it just lightly swirled away. Weeds surely would have a hard time growing in this, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Sam left the farm cussing his luck because he found no money or anything worth stealing. After a few miles he started itching in his crotch and really started cursing his luck when he realized he’d caught some kind of vermin from the dirty bitches he’d forced himself on somewhere.

He made his way up through the piney woods of east Texas and crossed the smooth-surfaced Sabine River close to Shreveport, Louisiana. He continued on up through the rolling hills to a small town along the banks of the Ouachita River, stopping at Monroe in order to buy some supplies and a much-needed drink of whiskey. At the saloon they called the Washout, he ordered a shot of rotgut and handed the barkeep a nickel which allowed him access to the free lunch table over in the far corner of the room. Sam tossed down the whiskey, took a deep breath as the potent amber liquid burned its way down his throat and began a slow burning fire down deep in his belly.

Licking his lips, he made his way on over to the table, which earlier had held mounds of food, but now held only pale, roughhewn chicken thighs and ham, left there by any would-be customer that might want them.

After making himself a jumbled sandwich, he scanned the tables at the card players to determine who might be the big winners tonight.

It didn’t take long before he spotted a nicely dressed gentleman, his light-brown sideburns extending to a full mustache, who undoubtedly came from the more prominent plantations. He was recklessly raking in pale green ten-dollar notes and not a few gold double eagles over to his side of the table to add to the large pile of winnings that were already there.

When the big winner started to make his excuses and rose to leave, there was the usual grumbling and sly remarks about not giving the others a chance to win their money back. However, most apparently knew the man, and with good-natured joshing, they all bid him good night as he walked on unsteady feet toward the door. 

Sam had been a little quicker with his thoughts and was already waiting outside the saloon in the dim light of early evening to see which way his mark would go.

When the man started to walk unevenly toward him, Sam hurried up the street to find a likely spot for an ambush. He almost missed a good spot, in all his rushing about, an alley that was darker than a swamp widder woman’s heart was wide open just past him. Sam backed up and disappeared into the darkness to await the arrival of his victim and that bulging purse.

The town was like most small towns in this area, come night most of the good law-abiding citizens were at home and off the streets. The only ones left to run rampant were the less savory characters, stumbling drunkards and the like, and whatever law that dared to venture out, especially down near the riverbank part of town.

Sam could hear strains of the popular The Pig Song among others accompanied by the ever-present twanging piano being played in the various pleasure houses and drinking establishments.  Muffled, drunken singing along with floor stamping were keeping time.

By the time the gentleman he’d been waiting for stumbled along in front of the alley, cold sweat was starting to trickle down the stiff bristles on Sam’s cheeks and his nerves were on end.

As the gentleman tottered just past the alley’s entrance, Sam sprang out with his Bowie knife in one hand. When he grabbed the unsuspecting man, the victim let out a loud yell. A woman, passing by on the other side of the street, hearing the man cry out, threw her hands to her cheeks and let out with an even louder scream.

Sam felt that he had no choice but to hurry up and cut the man’s throat. It was a botched job with warm, sticky blood running everywhere. Sam cussed himself up on the job and getting gore all over himself.

He found the poke with the winnings in it inside the man’s coat pocket, which he took, and without taking the time to rummage through the rest of the victim’s clothes, he took off running in a hurry. The woman across the street was still shrieking, but he couldn’t do anything about it now, he had to get away.

Sam had tied his own horses about a block down from where he was now and hurried towards them.

Just as he was mounting his bay horse, a shot rang out and the lead whizzed by just past his ear. Leaning low over the saddle whipping and spurring the bay hard and leading his pack horse Sam dashed out of town.

Both horses were at a hard run with sweaty foam flaking from their heaving sides when he finally pulled rein so the animals could blow a while. He realized that he was still too close to town to stay more than a few minutes. But the horses needed what little time he could give them to catch their breath. It was warm, perhaps a little too warm, for such hard riding this time of years. When the bay’s ears pricked up and looked back in the direction from which they had come, Sam took to the darkened heavily wooded forest alongside the road and went off in that direction at a trot.

Once deep in the sweet-smelling pine trees, he dismounted and made his way back far enough to see if the posse had found his tracks and followed them off the road. When he saw the mumbling posse go on past, he breathed a sigh of relief and went back to his horses and made good his getaway. As he mounted, a nearby crow gave a quick hoarse caw and flapped away.

That night, while still deeply hidden in the thick forest, Sam took out the poke that contained the planation gentleman’s winnings and, over a can of warmed-over beans and hardtack, he counted the money. There was a thousand dollars in the sack, which was good to any man’s satisfaction. With that much money he’d be set until he found another poor, unfortunate soul to rob.

Sam decided that he had worn out his welcome in Louisiana and headed on up through Arkansas into Missouri. He’d traveled pretty close to the banks of the wide Mississippi River. The forest helped with deer, rabbit, and possum meals and gave him ample cover when he needed it. He didn’t think that the laws would be coming this far after him, but there was no need to take the chance when he didn’t have to.

Memphis, across the river from where he was, was fortifying the city’s defenses against the Confederate Army and patrols that were everywhere. There were even some menacing ironclad gunboats coming and going up and down the river towards New Orleans and as far upriver as St. Louis.

Sam sure wanted to bypass all this commotion and left for the deeper interior of Missouri. Hopefully, he would get lost from the law somewhere along the way.

Sam had made it about two miles northwest of Memphis, Tennessee, when he ran smack dab into a Confederate patrol and was halted. The captain’s name was William Anderson and when he spoke he commanded everyone’s attention. One look into his hard, beady eyes and you knew that you’d better do as he said or suffer the consequences.

What brings you out this a way, mister? the captain asked. He was watching real close to see if this man was going to lie to him. If he lied he’d be shot or disposed of in some other way. If not then he’d be pressed into his little company of men.  There was always need of men because with each engagement with the enemy some would be killed. So, the need for good men that could keep their mouth shut do what they were told was always needed. As long as a man took order and asked no questions. Then they would stay in the good graces of the captain.

Sam recognized the name of the captain, but he was also known by another name as well. Bloody Bill Anderson was a legend. His name was known far and wide in the North and South alike. Sam also knew that if he lied he would more than likely be shot here on the spot. I’m a wandering man with no home,  Sam answered. If you need a good man to ride with you, then I’m obliged to ride. If not, then I’ll be on my way. I’m neither for the North nor the South. I’m for lining my pockets when I can. He figured that was enough said because the reputation of the captain was that of a bandit most of the time. He’d fight for the cause but mostly the cause was filling his own pockets with other people’s treasures.

There’s no doubt I need men. There’s an enemy patrol not far from here that’s guardin’ a wagon load of gold. Or at least that’s the word that’s been passed down. We’re to take it and get rid of the soldiers permanently. You savvy?

I savvy, Sam answered. His heart lightened with the news of the gold shipment because he knew that somewhere down the line, he’d get a share of the fruits of his labor.

Let’s ride, Captain Anderson said flatly, keep the noise down so we won’t be heard a mile away. Maybe we can pull this off without losin’ a bunch of you.

Sam followed them for about four miles when he saw the captain’s weathered, gloved hand come up to signal a halt. Then four men were sent out to scout the area and when they came back they reported to the captain. Bloody Bill gave the order and the patrol went forward at a slower pace. When the enemy had been sighted, they were in camp alongside the rod with a good stand of trees and buckeye to their backs.

This is not goin’ to be easy, Captain Anderson said with a sigh. Dismount and proceed on foot. The command was given, and everybody hopped to it quickly. Quiet was the word and quiet was what he got. The only sounds were the horses’ hooves as they were being led off into the woods.

The gray uniforms were dusty, and the men of the north fared no better. Even though there was a stream close by they were not allowed the luxury of a quick wash up. Everybody’s eyes were alert to the fact that an enemy Confederate patrol had been sighted earlier that morning, a few miles to the north of their original route.

When word had come of the sighting, the captain of the Union patrol decided to deviate a little to hopefully make it through without being detected. Small fires were built to make coffee and to warm up some beans and then they would be put out for the night. 

The first warning was the impact of a slug causing the man’s sudden sharp exhalation as it hit the Union Captain full in the chest. The men of the north scrambled for cover, but it was too late. The battle lasted only a short time and then everybody in a dusty blue uniform was dead.

Bloody Bill had fired the first shot and then all else was quick deliverance as each Confederate man chose a target and fired. Some men shot the same man two, three times, but with the same effect: all the guards with the gold shipment were dead.

The heavy gold was loaded on the black mules along with what supplies were found and Captain Anderson led his men off to the south where his own lines were.

During the two short years that Sam Jennings played a part in various skirmishes under Captain Anderson’s command, he always got his share of the profits and he met some men after his own accord. Sam, himself, was a short, slim man with a bad temper when it served his purpose. He had a lantern jaw and his top lip supported a bushy, dark brown mustache. His nose had been broken numerous times. All in all, he wasn’t a very handsome fellow.

Bill Haley, Jack Whittle, and Mark Williams were fast to make friends with Sam, not because of his good nature, but because they could sense his drive and ruthlessness to go beyond this war and establish his own gang. That was what all three wanted, a look at the future and money.

Bill Haley was a squared jawed man with an evil reddish-white scar from his right eyebrow down his cheek to his chin earned in a knife fight when he was just a kid. The man who’d given it to him was his uncle. Of course, shortly after this, Bill figured it was only fair and right to slash his uncle’s throat during the night while the man slept. The recollection of the sudden gasping, gurgling, and kicking always made his leathery face slowly break into a smile.

Mark Williams was tall, 6’4" and weighed 240 pounds. His black, shiny hair was long, and he tied it back with a piece of rawhide. His right leg had been broken in his younger days and he walked with a slight limp. His temper was something to be reckoned with when angered.

Jack Whittle stood 6’ tall in his stocking feet. His right arm had been broken some before and he slightly favored it. He’d learned to use his left hand to draw and fire his pistol and he had learned quite well. A good shot, he hardly ever missed what he was shooting at. Jack was the quiet sort, the type Sam would probably need to keep an eye on if a dispute were to come about.

Not only did the marauders rob banks and waylay gold shipments and supply trains, they also visited a few towns where they drank their fill of the devil’s brew and pleasured themselves with the obliging, painted women and raped the ones that weren’t. Nothing mattered to the marauder’s leader: the sky was the limit.

At the end of the Civil War, they broke up and scattered, that is, those that hadn’t been shot, caught, or hanged. Some of the men paired up and wandered off in groups.

In turn, Sam Jennings partnered up with these three newfound friends and became the notorious Jennings gang.

This small group left devastation and destruction in their wake no matter where they went. When things got too hot for them to go about their business of relieving others from their pocketbooks, they had a place that was pretty well hidden off up in the Ozark Mountains. The hideout was within a day’s ride of Little Rock, Arkansas. The place was a natural fortress, with one way in that a man could ride a horse through, and only a steep, weedy game trail or two out. Sam had kept the location in his mind, sharing the exact location with no one, until now.

Instead of rough plank shacks, the hideout was a huge, chilly natural cave that ran darkly way back into the cavity of the mountain some five hundred feet. There was a shallow spring that pleasantly gurgled through the cavern close to the back, where it disappeared under some rocks on the other side. The water was always ice cold, as if it came off a snowbank somewhere or another. There was also plenty of room for their horses in case they needed to be put up in a safe place. Nobody was able to find the cave’s entrance since there was a thick screen of pine and grayish-green spruce trees growing in front of it.

Sam recognized the symptoms of the gang getting restless from just sitting around doing nothing and they were starting to grumble amongst themselves. Sam knew it was just a matter of time before the men would be wanting the comforts of town to spend some of their money.

One evening by the fire when Sam had wandered off into the trees seeking solitude, Bill Haley looked at the other two men and mumbled just loud enough for the others to hear, Wonder why ole Sam is holding up in this here cave like an old woman. You’d reckon he’s scared or something.

The other men grumbled their own disapproval. Yet, no one knew that Sam had come back to the cave and heard all that had been said. Sam also knew that none of the men had guts enough to grumble to his face.

They still had the money from the last robbery, but nowhere to spend it. One evening, some days later, Sam put it to a vote and they all agreed they would try new territory.

He knew that the federal marshals out of Fort Smith were scouring the countryside looking for them. So he decided they should make a venture down through Texas, robbing a few banks or maybe even a stagecoach or two, then using on west, possibly to California or even down to Mexico where the Mexican ladies were hot blooded and thrilled for a good man to take care of them.

As the gang slipped out of Arkansas, they passed what would later become Texarcana, Texas early one morning. They found an abandoned, rough-planked farmhouse to hold up in for a while. Sam figured that Nacogdoches somewhat south of them must have a bank and decided that a loan would be appropriate, since he was in the business of relieving banks of their money anyway.

Ten days later, he and his men rode the dusty street into town as a somewhat scouting party to see if it was even worth their time to rob. They found the bank ripe for the picking.

There were few people out in the streets and the he noticed a fluttering note on the door of the Sheriff’s office.

Sam casually walked by the Sheriff’s office, stopped and mumbled under his breath as he read the note.